Intermission
by InsaneInk
Summary: Sequel to 'A Word to Start, A Fist to End'. WARNING: Child abuse, physical, lasting psychological trauma, and non-con.
1. Prelude

It's been four years since it began, and Sam tries, how he does try to not think of it as it really is- child abuse.

But it's just that, and it never stopped. Sure, John might've had a good day here and there, but just when Sam thinks he's safe, thinks that "Today will be good, I won't get hurt-"; a fist comes flying towards him.

It's made Sam shy, only close to Dean. He might try and stick up for a kid at school, but stops before words even leave his mouth. He remembers what happened last time he stuck up for himself.

"_Leave me alone! Get away!"_

_A bottle –flying -to close, to slow,-_

_Gruff voice. "Listen to me Sam. I told you to come here."_

_Hands, reaching, grabbing, to late- caught._

_Pain._

Sam still tries to say no. And the only thing he gets in return are purple and blue flowers blooming along his chest.

Sam wasn't the only one that learned.

John had, too.

-

If Sam was going to go to school, he couldn't be marked up. John only hit where those incriminating things would be hidden.

John couldn't have Sam taken away. He was a living reminder of Mary. Maybe she'd come out one day, if Sam left her. John could see her in Sam.

If Sam was gone, would his Mary come back?

-

Sam didn't understand why his dad said what he did.

Things about his mother, and how she's still here, but waiting, waiting for something.

"_I know, I know you're waiting Mary. But I don't know if you will come back. I'm not sure I should do it…..so that you can come back."_

_-_

Sam had long since learned that those monsters his father killed were indeed real.

He regretted ever saying they weren't, because if he hadn't said it, he wouldn't be here, right now.

Cringing and trying to curl in on himself while his father bore down on him with large adult fists that had the power of a Marine and Hunter behind them.

"I see you Mary."

Lies. His mom is gone.

"Please come back."

Sam thought the exact same thing- except he was wishing for Dean.

-

When Dean did see the bruises, and it was rarely because Sam always had a shirt on, he pinned them on training.

Dean knew that he and Sam had to practice, get faster, know how to fight the monster that lurked and killed people.

And his dad was extra tough on Sam.

"Because Sam needs to practice more," he thought.

-

Two more years went by and Sam was eleven, Dean fifteen.

It was this year during winter break when Sam was in sixth grade, that he met Lance Roland.


	2. Desertation

Here you go guys, sorry for the wait. I've been busy brainstorming for BigBang 2010, a Supernatural Fic contest. Anyway, I've gotta run, (I love orchestra but getting up this early on a Sunday? Sheesh.) Seeya~

FEEDBACK PLEASE M'KAY.

* * *

Lance was by no means a bad guy. Sam was just shy with everyone but his brother. Dean still called him everyday. Sam didn't want to stay behind without his brother, but the creature of the week was too tough for Sam to be anywhere near. It only fed on children.

So Sam was to stay with a buddy of his dad's while the elder Winchesters handled it.

Sam argued, he tried to convince his father to take him along, momentarily forgetting the rough hands and mottled blue on his along his ribs because of them. Dean would be there. No school since it was near Christmas, so Dean would _be there _with him, Sam wouldn't be alone with his father.

The only reason his dad hadn't hit him was because Dean was in the room.

But it didn't stop John from sending Dean out for food so he could give Sam a few reminders of why he should listen.

--

When John first pulled up to Lance's house, Sam wouldn't get out of the car. Dean eventually coaxed him out, gentle prodding and promises that he'd be back soon.

"The sooner you get out the sooner I'll be back Sam."

"Dean I don't wanna stay. I wanna go with you." He was whining he knew, and really didn't care.

"I have to go save people Sam. Little kids, just like you are getting hurt by this thing, and me and Dad have to go stop it before more are hurt."

By hurt he meant dead, and Sam knew that. He got out of the car with his backpack, and slunk past his dad, the cold stare he could feel aimed at him made Sam shiver. He expected Dean to follow him up the walk but his brother stayed by the car, the ever obedient son.

"Introduce yourself to Mr. Roland Sam."

"No, no, John, it's fine he can call me Lance. No need for formalities like that."

Lance was a broad guy, friendly looking, but at the same time didn't want to mess with him.

Sam didn't like his hands. They reminded him of his father's.

Sam was quiet, already withdrawing into himself without Dean there to pat his shoulder, tell him that it's okay. "Hi."

"Hello Sam. It's nice to meet you." Lance stuck his arm out to shake Sam's hand, and Sam flinched away, ducked and just barely stopped himself from sweeping his leg out like his Dad taught him.

'_Faster Sam! Werewolves aren't going to wait for you to duck!'_

John wasn't going to wait either.

--

Sam had to work to keep himself from flinching away every time Lance did something.

Simple things, like offering Sam a glass or plate, reaching out to pat his back, even making a gesture, would make Sam back up and start curling in on himself.

Lance was trying hard to get along with Sam, and if it weren't for the instinctual fear of those big hands then Sam would really like the guy.

"Are you alright son?" Lance had asked him that on the third day with genuine concern, after Sam landed on the coffee table while trying to duck away from Lance's attempt to ruffle his hair.

Sam stood up shaky and just wanted to go back the guest room, huddle under the covers and sleep until his brother came back. "Yeah."

Everything was fine. Just fine. After all, Sam was only afraid of his father.

--

It was the fourth day, and Sam was waiting on Dean's call. Dean always called in the morning before he and John went out of the motel. Sam was searching through his bag; just making sure things were in place.

He noticed something wrong. Things were missing.

His Holy water and salt.

Sam hid in his room till Dean called.

"Dean?"

"Heya Sammy, how's it-"

"Dean. Dean my stuff is missing." Sam was close to hyperventilating; of all the things in his bag that could be taken why would Lance take his holy water and salt?

"Sam, you sure you didn't just leave it somewhere in the house?"

"Only my holy water and salt are gone. Dean is Lance-"

Sam heard Dean scoff on the other end, Sam was trembling and starting to get nervous.

"No Sam, he's not possessed. It's fine, I just took those out of your bag before you left."

It was reassuring, hearing Dean sound so sure. "Why?"

"Cause we were running low on holy water and salt. I figured Lance might have some lying around."

"Why would he, I mean, he's not a hunter-"

"He knows what's out there. He's not a hunter, but he knows."

"Okay."

"Gotta go Sam, Dad is ready to go. Seeya."

"Bye Dean."

It's alright. Sam could trust Dean.

--

Damn, it was so easy to trick the boy.

He was so trusting of his older brother, and that could be used as a weapon. He used the brother's voice, put the little one's fears are at ease. He'd been around the block a few times, alright maybe a few thousand times, but nothing satisfied him more than children.

They were young, and naïve, souls still pure but not without some tarnishing.

But this Winchester boy, young and innocent while knowing what is actually waiting in the shadows….now that's hard to find. He was having good luck this year.

He licked his lips gratefully, ignoring the screams coming from the vessel's owner.

"_Don't touch that boy! Leave him alone!"_

He laughed, it was humorous when humans tried to order him around, even when they were trapped inside their own body.

Meat sacks were odd that way.

To put the delicious icing on the cake, the boy's tarnish so to speak, was child abuse.

So young and yet to old already.

Sam's would be the best soul he'd eaten yet.

--


	3. Impostor

OH MY GOSH GUYS WHAT IS THIS. Oh yeah. It's what you think it is. Long awaited update of Intermission! *clapclap*

**Thanks to my wonderful beta, Padfoot3456, for checking this at ass-o'clock in the morning. :,D**

Enjoy~

* * *

"It's a what?" Dean chuckles softly, amused.

John shakes his head, gestures to the papers he has spread before him.

"Pay attention Dean." He says in a firm voice, no room for argument.

Dean snaps to attention immediately. "Yessir."

"It's a Chonchon."

Dean reaches for one of the papers, runs his finger across the page, reading bits and pieces. "How do we kill it?"

John thrums his fingers on the table, impatience taking hold. "I've told you before that you need to understand the creature first before you go and kill it, Dean. You can't run into hunts like this half-assed."

John's eyebrows crease, frustration dancing with the already present impatience.

"These things are rare, ghosts, demons; those are the norm for us at this point. But there are other things, many others, Shtrigas, Rakshasas, even Pagan gods, that don't show up every day."

Dean watches his father work his way across the table pointing to various things notes in his journal about said creatures.

"And those are the ones you need to watch out for." John says, deathly serious.

"You could go in knowing how to kill them, sure, but if you don't understand why, they could kill you that much faster."

Dean nods slowly, and John sees it. Smacks his palm back onto the papers about Chonchons.

"Chonchons are mapuche mythology, mostly presented as birds with human heads and large ears. Supposedly it's a transformation of a mapuche sorcerer. But the one we've been tailing..."

John sighs and wipes his face with his hand.

"It seems to have combined hoodoo with mapuche magic." John pauses, and Dean knows there's bad news.

"So it can possess people like demons."

Dean groans. John nods, proud his son picked up on why that would make this difficult.

"That means this thing could be any poor sucker we see!" Dean exclaims grumpily.

John pauses, thinks over his theory. It's pretty good, considering what he's pieced together about this particular Chonchon, and the patterns from old victims.

"If it's combining magics like this, then it should've been affected some way. Maybe it just thinks it's a demon now."

John watches the light spark behind his son's eyes. _Mary._

"Then that means..." Dean's voice holds the lightest trace of excitement.

"Yeah. Salt and holy water will probably do the trick."

Dean grins and slaps his hands down on the table. "How do we find the fucker?"

John only lets his son's foul language shake him up for a second, before he's across the room and packing. Dean on the other hand, lets out a sigh of relief that his father didn't call him on his slip of tongue.

"We look for some signs, blood loss in the middle of the night, people waking up dead when they were perfectly healthy the night before."

Dean frowns. "It drinks blood and..?"

"Souls."

A grimace at this from both men.

"It eats souls."

*

Sam was still hiding out in the guest room, apprehensive of Lance even after Dean's assurances.

"Sam?" Lance's muffled voice flits through the closed door. Sam stops breathing, listens for noises from the other side.

"Sam I made lunch if you're hungry."

He hears footsteps, tries to tell himself that it's okay, Lance is a pretty nice guy, but the deep timbre of Lance's voice also strikes Sam as familiar.

"You okay?"

A knock on the door jolts Sam from his panic, and he dives under the bed out of instinct.

"Sam?"

The low voice asks again, the soft sound of worry hitting Sam. It's not his dad. He crawls out from under the bed, trying to make himself look normal as he sits criss-cross with a random book in his lap.

The door opens.

"Why didn't you answer me?" Sam starts again at the sudden 180 in Lance's tone.

It's dark now, scary, and it makes Sam miss Dean even more.

"I, uh... sorry. The book... I was focused.." He replies weakly, a small flimsy smile plastered on his face.

Lance glances down at the book in Sam's lap.

"What'cha reading?" Lance asks casually, another complete turnaround in tone.

Sam fumbles with the hardcover, flipping it around so he and Lance can see the title.

"Latin..?" Sam nods silently, and feigns reading.

"Family thing huh?" Sam nods again, urging Lance to go away in his head.

"Hey Sam."

Something is going on.

This isn't right.

Lance's voice...isn't Lance's anymore.

It's not his father's either.

It's like nothing Sam has ever heard before.

The sound scratches at Sam's nerves, pulling him tighter with each syllable.

"You're pretty Sammy." Lance shifts in the doorway, footsteps moving closer to Sam's bed.

"So very pretty."

Sam's eyes snap to Lance's. They're large and yellow, staring into places that Sam couldn't even fathom.

"And your soul..." Lance says with wonderment, in an eerily gentle tone.

Lance steps up till his knees hit the edge of Sam's bed. Sam stays in place, frozen with fear at the sight of those haunting bird-like eyes.

"I want it for my own, Sammy. Won't you give it to me?"

* * *

Some of the stuff about Chonchons is real, other things I twisted to fit the stories' needs. All incorrectness is my fault.


	4. Realizations

Dean sits in the passenger seat of the Impala, nervously chewing a pen cap, a habit he's had since he started school, as he studies the Chonchon's victims.

It's just as his father says, significant amount of blood loss, some of them healthy one day and dead the next. All of them with some sort of life trauma.

He shifts the papers around, looking at the names.

Frank Lomita, parents killed in car crash. He was the only survivor.

Beatrice Vitro, forced to stay in an abuse relationship for over five years.

Terri Nole, kidnapped for a few months before returned to her family.

Those only a few of the many scattered across the states, always something in their past that might have given them extreme grief.

Dean pauses as he's flipping through the papers.

Sure, the victims are scattered, but when Dean compares the dates and locations of the vics, there is a pattern. The Chonchon isn't just jumping around eating pained souls, it's migrating East. And the last death was in Lincoln, Nebraska. The one before in Colorado.

Dean always gets yelled at for writing on the maps, but he needs to check, and connect the trail. Before the Chonchon was only killing in the Far East, moving around the coastal states. But in the last two weeks, it started moving and killing more.

The lines zigzag across the map, but they end in Lincoln. Northeast of Lawrence, and worse, directly North of Concordia.

_Sam._

"Dad!"

John swerves and is launched from his own thoughts as his son starts yelling in the seat beside him.

"The- the thing, The Chonchon, its moving East! To Kansas, and…Sam-!"

Maybe, Dean thinks, maybe watching your mother burn on the ceiling, even when you're only a baby, could be cause enough for the Chonchon to target Sam.

Dean shivers as he thinks of Sam's nightmares. Every night he crawls into his brother's bed, holding him close and telling Sam it'll be alright.

Even if it's not enough for the Chonchon, Dean still wants to guarantee his brother's safety.

John grasps what Dean is saying, and understands why his son is frightened. But he doubts the Chonchon will target Sam.

Sam doesn't have any horrific trauma-

"_Mary, where are you?"_

"_Dad, dad no, it's me, Sam don't-"_

"Oh my God."

Dean clamps onto the dash as his father executes a U-turn, and slams onto the gas.

They're headed East.

Sam's screams, he decides, are delightful little things. Like a mewling kitten, sound coming out broken and scratchy.

It's beautiful, but neighbors are nosy bastards.

He clamps a hand over Sam's throat, squeezes until no sound is coming out except for the dry wheezing of air.

"I love your voice Sammy," He purrs. "But we don't want people getting curious now do we?" He says with mock sympathy.

Sam's eyes go wide, and the child thrashes under the heavy body of the human male he's possessing.

He presses down even harder on Sam's throat, grabbing one of the boy's wrists.

"Calm down now Sam, or this will hurt a lot more than it needs to," He says cheerily, releasing Sam's throat and locking both of the kids wrists together, pressing them into the bed.

"Don't move," He breathes into Sam's neck, licking the tender flesh.

It's been a long time since he's had a toy this sweet, this young and gloriously tasty. It's been awhile since he's had anything good period, and he's going to enjoy this thoroughly.

He pulls a cloth from his pocket, an old ritualistic thing, and ties Sam's wrists together, tightly pulling the knot.

"So pretty," He moans, running his teeth against the boy's neck.

He killed the owner of the vessel earlier, devouring his soul in preparation for this.

It would be so good, it already was and he hadn't even _started_ yet.

Interruptions would be most unwelcome.

Sam's throat burns with the phantom ache of rough hands that were choking him moments earlier. It brings back memories, not all of them old.

His eyes sting with unshed tears, and he can feel his wrists grinding together in their binding. He was learning how to escape being tied up just last month, but nothing he remembers can be applied to this.

Especially when the thing you need to escape from is sitting on you.

This isn't Lance anymore.

He doesn't know if it's a demon or not, but it's all he can call this _thing._

It mouths at his neck, sharp teeth dragging on his exposed skin, moving down towards his shoulder. He feels the intent there, the danger that is so close, and all it needs to do is press a little harder.

Clawed hands rip his shirt off, tossing is aside.

Sam knows what is going to happen. He knows, but it doesn't seem _real._

The thing bites down suddenly, drawing blood from his shoulder. It moans loudly, lapping and licking at Sam's wounded shoulder without a care. Warm red trickles onto the sheets, staining them red.

It thrusts down into Sam, and he can feel the hard line of its erection on his stomach. Sam shivers, tears running down his face. Everything feels so _wrong._

"Please stop," He whispers, useless objection forcing its way out of his throat.

The thing laughs into his skin, ignores his protests and bites down harder.

"Please!" He screams this time, arching up and thrashing his bound arms.

The thing sits up, puts a hand on Sam's chest, lightly dragging the claws up and down Sam's body.

"I thought I told you to stop," It growls, and Sam freezes. His breath catches in his still sore throat, air coming out garbled.

It grins, and hooks a claw in the waistband of Sam's jeans, tugging downwards.

Sam turns his head from the piercing yellow eyes and sobs into his arm.


	5. Defilement

This chapter isn't as bad as I anticipated, and I assume you all know what happened to Sam. If you don't... Sam is sorta famous for nightmares.

Anyway, this chapter is pretty short and to the point. I do believe I've broken them all.

* * *

Dean is running to the door before his father, throwing the door open and holding his shotgun tightly, John quickly appearing behind him in the doorway.

They search downstairs, and find nothing. John points up, and Dean takes point before his dad can, cautiously scaling the stairs.

The Chonchon slinks out of one of the rooms, glowing yellow eyes and claws leaping for Dean faster than he can see, but John pumps it full of rocksalt before it touches his son.

The Chonchon falls back, hissing and writhing on the wood floor.

John starts to exorcize it while Dean tosses holy water on the screeching beast.

When John finishes the exorcism, the Chonchon freezes, back arching up off the ground, mouth lined with sharp teeth wide open.

Something starts to _slither _out of Lance's body, pooling on the floor.

"Dad.." Dean whispers.

"It's the true form," John whispers back, equally quiet, waiting for the next attack.

The swamp green puddle shivers, moving up into something solid.

It looks like a flying head on claws, with large ears that spread out like wings. Dean has never seen anything like it, wrinkled green skin, hideous features and yellowed talons peeking out from under the head.

As soon as the twisted face forms Dean shoots it.

It shrieks, and the sound makes Dean's ears bleed.

He shoots it again, right after his father.

It falls back, mottled green skin fading, yellow eyes losing their glow.

"Go find Sam," John says, grabbing the corpse of the Chonchon by its scraggly black hair. "I'm going to burn it."

Dean takes off into the room the Chonchon came out of.

Sam is motionless on the bed, naked and curled into himself with his back away from Dean.

There's blood on the sheets, dark red stains that surround Sam, and Dean sees the purpling wound on his brother's shoulder, wide gaping holes where the Chonchon's teeth sank into.

Dean slowly walks to his brother, throat closing up at the sheer amount of broken he can see.

There are bruises everywhere.

Dean calls Sam's name softly, reaching out to brush a hand against Sam's forehead.

Sam flinches backward and screams, screams as loud as he can.

"No! Don't touch me! _Don't touch me_!"

Sam is crawling across the bed, away from Dean, thrashing and crying.

Dean grabs his brother's wrist, winces when he sees the extreme amount of raw and bleeding flesh there, and tugs Sam into a hug.

"No, not again, please," Sam whimpers, clawing at the sheets to get away.

"Sam, Sammy it's me," Dean hushes, running a hand through Sam's hair, his fingers coming away bloody.

"D-Dean?" Sam whispers.

"Yeah Sammy." Dean looks his brother in the eyes, still holding him close. "Came for you Sam."

"Oh God," Sam says, voice breaking as he sobs into Dean's arms.

John stands in the doorway, looking at the bedroom.

He's never heard his youngest that scared, even when he was..even when he wasn't himself.

Dean his shielding his brother, whispering to him while they sit on the messy bed.

John sees other things besides blood on those sheets, and he breaks inside.

Sam will never be the same.

Sam huddles into Dean on the backseat of the Impala, staring blankly at the black interior of the car.

He's afraid to sleep, because he can't stop remembering, can't stop feeling everything the thing did to him, over and over.

A phantom claw rakes down Sam's stomach, and he shakes again, crying into the warmth of his brother's embrace.

John stops at a motel, quickly grabbing a room and taking the med kit in while Dean brings a catatonic Sam along.

Dean settles Sam onto the bed, slowly taking off the shirt they gave him to wear.

"Need to check your wounds Sammy," Dean softly says.

Sam doesn't move, or nod, doesn't show any sign that he's heard his brother.

John moves in with the kit, but as soon as he touches Sam's hand, Sam leaps into the air, screeching and flailing away from them both.

He lands on the floor with a thump, scooting backwards into the wall where he wraps around himself and shivers.

Dean nearly cries at the sight of his brother, lost and frightened beyond belief.

"You'll have to do it," His father says emotionlessly, pushing the kit towards Dean before he walks out of the room.

Dean looks at Sam.

He's fixed a lot of things for Sam, helped him out, protected him with his life. This though.

He doesn't know how to make this right.

* * *

Rate and Review. Feed the fangirl beast and thy will be rewarded. -Grace


	6. Reparations

**A/N: **Holy fuck guys, it's an update. Please don't lynch me to death for dissapearing. Due to personal life problems and computer arsery, I have been out of commission. But now, I am back, and better than ever (I hope) Because school is supposed to make you "mure smurt".

Plus I've been working on my writing style in general. Enjoy, review, and expect things to be looking up.

**Warnings: **For this chapter there isn't much. Just general angst and regret. A bit of self mutilation, but nothing serious.

* * *

In a vaguely detached way, John realizes this is his fault. It hurts him deeply, makes his chest ache and his eyes burn in a way they haven't since he saw Mary burning on the ceiling of their dream home.

He hurt his _son_, for no reason that he can justify. John is a bad father, through and through, and while he may have taught his sons to protect themselves against supernatural evil, he never told them how to protect themselves from human evil.

Especially the man that raised them.

John left the motel room when Sam flailed away from him, his son's chest fluttering like a trapped bird's. Frightened of _him_.

Sam's eyes were so blank. John couldn't see anything that reminded him of his son. Nothing but pain etching Sam's face. Then again, what the hell does he know about his youngest?

He didn't even realize he was beating and hurting him, for what? His dead wife?

No.

John sits against the motel wall, face buried in his palms, pressing his hands to his eyes.

God what has he done.

... ... ...

Sam shivers. He can't stop, even though it's not cold.

It's too hot, not cold at all, and Sam kicks off the blankets, rubbing at his raw wrists. Dean bandaged them for him. Dean was here. Not cold.

Sam looks around. He shivers harder, teeth chattering. Not cold. Flinches when he feels teeth sinking into his neck.

Bandages are everywhere. They're itchy, and tight, holding him inside his own skin.

Not cold.

Sam doesn't like it. He scratches at them, tugging, pulling. Sam wants them _off_.

Not cold.

... ... ...

Dean comes out of the bathroom, and yells when he sees Sam agitating his wounds all over again. It's the fourth time his brother has tried this.

Sam startles like he does whenever there's a too loud sound. A door slamming. A car driving by. Dean speaking above a whisper.

Every time Sam wakes up, he removes the blankets one way or another, and then rips into his bandages.

They're running out of adhesive tape and gauze, because Sam seems to forget he's already done this each time he's conscious again.

His Dad hasn't come back into the room since he left. Dean doesn't even know what to think of that.

"Sammy, Sammy you've got to stop," Dean pleads. "You can't keep doing this."

Sam pauses, his painfully empty eyes, the ones that were hazel and bright only days ago, finally focusing. Finally. Dean chokes back a sob.

"You lied Dean," Sam says, voice raw and scratchy. Dean double-takes and looks again at his little brother.

It's almost worse now. No longer are Sam's eyes barren. They're filled to the brim with tears and pain, nothing but ugly things. Like betrayal.

"What?" Is all Dean can say, because he's ready to cry. Dean never cries, but this. Sam doesn't trust him anymore, and Dean can tell. In more ways than one Dean has failed Sam.

But Sam doesn't talk anymore after that. He lies down, pulling up the blankets and falling asleep.

Dean only has to wait half an hour before Sam is crawling out from under the blankets, biting at the bandages on his wrists with animalistic grunts and tears in his eyes.

... ... ...

"You have to take them."

"Now John, you know I am in no position to be raising two little boys."

"You'd be doing better by them than I would."

"John-"

"I know you've seen something, Missouri. I know you already have some idea of what I've done, just from talking to me."

"…Doesn't change the fact that I'm not their momma John."

"Please. Just for a little bit. Help them."

"...You owe me even more, if I do this John Winchester."

"I know. Th-"

"Don't thank me. Just get them boys down here."

"I'll be there in three days, tops."

"I know."

* * *

And scene. You like? **R/R**. (Can someone tell me why isn't letting us use ~ or - or _ as seperators? Because this is BS.)


End file.
